


There's Nothing Holding You Back but Yourself

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John regains his limp and his sense of self.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Nothing Holding You Back but Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://rubespeanut.livejournal.com/profile)[**rubespeanut**](http://rubespeanut.livejournal.com/)'s prompt [here](http://nickelsandcoats.livejournal.com/122267.html) at my shuffle meme post. Feel free to prompt me something there!
> 
> For [](http://rubespeanut.livejournal.com/profile)[**rubespeanut**](http://rubespeanut.livejournal.com/) , who wanted song #1,003, which was "Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis” by Ralph Vaughan Williams, performed by the BBC Symphony Orchestra. In addition to the song, [](http://rubespeanut.livejournal.com/profile)[**rubespeanut**](http://rubespeanut.livejournal.com/) also wanted John taking a bullet that was intended to kill Mycroft. He is seriously wounded, if he lives, his injuries will be permanent.

  


There was a tense silence as he and Sherlock locked eyes over the bomb, Moriarty, and the gun in Sherlock’s steady hand. John nodded, almost imperceptibly, but Sherlock saw. He saw everything.

“You can’t be allowed to continue,” Moriarty crooned as he stepped a bit closer. “You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

“Probably my answer has crossed yours,” Sherlock said as he turned and raised the gun, pointing it at Moriarty before lowering it to the bomb.

John closed his eyes for a brief second in a quick prayer⎯ _please, let it be over quickly and don’t let us suffer_ ⎯and reopened them to see a red dot holding steady on Moriarty’s chest.

“I rather don’t think there’s any need for dramatics,” Mycroft said, coming up to stand beside Sherlock. “Besides, Mr…Moriarty, was it? Your snipers have all been taken care of. Detective Inspector Lestrade was most pleased to have so many taken into custody.”

At that, Lestrade stepped out of the shadows behind Mycroft. John stood and turned to look at Mycroft, who was smiling a bit warmly at Lestrade. The DI was saying “James Moriarty, you are under arrest for the⎯” when John saw another red dot on Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft’s men and the Yarders must have missed a sniper.

John didn’t hesitate. “Sniper! Down!” He shouted as he dove for Mycroft. Lestrade lunged for Sherlock. John heard two shots. Just as he tackled Mycroft to the ground, John felt the bullet tear through his knee. He heard Sherlock cry out in pain and thought, _oh, Christ, I hope he didn’t get hit, too_ before the pain overwhelmed him and he lost consciousness.

*

John woke up to the sounds of his lover arguing with Lestrade and Mycroft. John couldn’t distinguish any words through the closed door, but he could recognise the tone and timbre of Sherlock’s voice anywhere⎯and he was angry about something.

John let his mind drift off in the haze of very strong painkillers and almost didn’t notice that Sherlock’s voice was suddenly quite clear until the detective gently closed his hand around John’s.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“How are you feeling?”

“What happened?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and then glanced over his shoulder at someone. John followed his gaze and saw that Lestrade and Mycroft had joined them. Both men were avoiding looking at John’s leg, keeping their eyes firmly fixed on his face. John’s heart started to race as he began to panic.

“What happened to me?”

“John, John calm down,” Sherlock said, gripping his hand more tightly. One quick sweep of his eyes over John’s face told him enough as he said, gently, “Your leg is still there.”

John heard the pause and the unspoken “but” and snapped, “Tell me what happened. I’m not asking again.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and Lestrade, sensing Sherlock’s discomfort, opened his mouth to speak. Mycroft laid a hand on his arm and Lestrade closed his mouth again. John noted this silent exchange with one raised eyebrow. Lestrade blushed,; Mycroft met his gaze coolly but said nothing.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” John snapped. “Give me my chart.”

Sherlock said, softly, “John, I don’t think that⎯”

“Chart. Now.”

Mycroft stepped forward and handed him his chart. Sherlock glared at his brother.

“He has the right to know, Sherlock.”

John steeled himself and flipped the chart open. His eyes flicked over the intake forms, the surgeon’s reports. He read them through carefully, and then read them again to make sure he hadn’t misread anything. He hadn’t.

He closed his eyes and let the chart fall on his lap. _It could have been so much worse,_ he thought, _and I should think of it like that._ But it was hard to do so. His surgeon, (one of the top in the country⎯he supposed he had Mycroft to thank for that), noted that he would be able to walk again, but not without a permanent limp.

His days of chasing after Sherlock were over.

What use would he be if he couldn’t go out in the field with his partner, his lover, and help him? How long would Sherlock keep him around if he couldn’t help? John knew the answer to that was not long. This was like being invalided home all over again; John couldn’t do what he loved to do, and it meant uprooting his life and starting over once more.

He didn’t know if he could do that again. Losing this life with Sherlock, the one person who John lived for, would end him, and John knew it.

John opened his eyes and swallowing hard, said, “There were two shots. There was one bullet hole in me⎯who else was hurt?”

Lestrade’s eyes flicked to Sherlock.

“It was just a graze to my arm, John. I’m not seriously hurt⎯it probably won’t even leave a scar.”

“Let me see,” John said. He wished he could go back in time and keep Sherlock from being hurt. A wave of guilt washed over him. He hadn’t even tried to save Sherlock, his lover, but his lover’s brother. How could Sherlock even stand to look at him, let alone sit here and hold his hand?

Sherlock let go of John’s hand and carefully unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the white bandage on his bicep. John reached out and brushed his fingers along it.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Doctor Watson,” he began.

John tore his eyes away from Sherlock’s arm and looked at Mycroft.

“No one has yet answered your earlier question. I had rung the Detective Inspector with the information Sherlock posted on his website. We went in with a team and subdued Moriarty’s snipers. Apparently, we missed at least one. Once the two shots were fired, Moriarty made his escape, as did the sniper or snipers we missed. All of them are, regrettably, still at large, though we do have a few very promising leads.”

John nodded.

“And I cannot thank you enough, Doctor, for your quick thinking. You saved my life, and I owe you a debt I cannot possibly repay.”

John squirmed a bit and said, gruffly, “I just reacted on instinct. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Ah, but Gregory and I beg to differ.”

“I knew it!” Sherlock hissed in triumph as Lestrade blushed.

John’s eyes were locked on Sherlock’s arm, bandage now hidden away again as Sherlock had rebuttoned his shirt.

Lestrade noticed and gently tugged Mycroft towards the door. “I cannot thank you enough, John,” Lestrade said as he shook John’s hand.

“I think we’re even,” John replied as he glanced back at Sherlock. “You saved mine and I saved yours.” He gave Lestrade a wan smile as they left him and Sherlock alone in the room.

John took a deep breath and said, “How long do I have?”

Sherlock blinked. “What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong with you, John.”

He laughed bitterly. “I meant, how long do I have before my now useless leg and permanent limp make me irrelevant to you?”

“How could you say that?”

“Because I know what you’re like. As soon as something isn’t valuable or interesting to you, you throw it out and move on. I can’t go on the chase with you anymore since I can’t run after you, and soon enough you’ll get tired of the lover who can’t go with you and do the things we loved to do and you’ll lose interest and I don’t think I can bear that, so tell me how long I’ve got, Sherlock, so I can put a plan in place.”

Sherlock gripped his hand so tightly it hurt as he ground out, “John. Look. At. Me.”

Startled, John looked up and had his chin caught in an iron grip, forcing his head to stay up so he could look Sherlock in the eye.

“You will never bore me. You will never be useless to me. I need you, John, just as I need oxygen. There will never be a time when I will leave you behind. We can work around your injury. And besides, there’s no need for us to go running after people if we have the police to do it for us. So take the thought of you leaving or me growing bored with you and delete it. It. Will. Never. Happen. Clear?”

John blinked and nodded.

Sherlock sagged in relief. “Good. Now, I believe _QI_ will be on in a minute. We have some trivia to answer.”

John recognised the change in topic as Sherlock’s method of dealing with overwhelming emotions and let the matter drop, for now. They still had a long way to go yet. John knew his road to recovery would be long and arduous, and Sherlock would grow impatient with him and he with Sherlock, but if they were in this together, then John knew that they could weather the coming months.

He drifted off to sleep with Sherlock’s indignant scoffing at Stephen Fry’s “obvious” questions flowing through his thoughts.

*

Two weeks later, John was discharged from hospital.

He had been using a pair of crutches for the first week, but had graduated to the hateful aluminium cane for the second week. He glared at the cane, hating that he was now reliant on it forever.

Sherlock reminded him that Mycroft had the best surgeons in the country on his payroll, and even now, those surgeons were looking into ways of getting John his full mobility. But it would take time, and meanwhile, John was stuck with the bloody cane.

On his last day in hospital, he was alone. He had decided to discharge himself a few hours early⎯he’s just text Sherlock and let him know he’d left early.

The nurse who brought him his discharge papers also brought a long, skinny package with her.

“This came in for you today, Doctor Watson,” she said as she handed both papers and package over. “I’ll be back in a bit to get those papers.”

John set the papers down on the bedside table and turned the package over in his hands before breaking the seal of tape that held the wrappings. When the smooth, heavy paper fell away, he was left holding the most gorgeous cane he had ever seen in his life.

It was a handsome deep mahogany, with striations of lighter wood creating a subtle pattern up the length of the cane. The handle was well-padded and fit his hand perfectly. He stood up, testing it under his weight. It was perfect.

He grinned a bit. If he had to use a cane, then this is the cane to use, he thought before noticing the light blue card on the floor. It must have fallen when he unwrapped the cane.

Using the cane to brace himself, he bent down and picked up the card, opening it one-handed.

 _John,_

 _We hope this cane suits you better, and that you won’t have to use it for long. By the by, Mycroft insisted on a little addition⎯see if you can find it. I’m sure you’ll know how to use it if necessary._

 _⎯Lestrade_

John sat back on the edge of the bed and twisted the cane about in his hands, carefully inspecting it. Finally, he twisted the handle and noticed that it popped loose. He pulled up and started laughing as he drew a sword from his cane. Mycroft and Lestrade had sent him a sword cane. He laughed harder as he carefully resheathed it, filled out his paperwork, and left the hospital. He didn’t look back.

When he arrived at Baker Street half an hour later, Mrs. Hudson greeted him at the door and fussed over him loudly enough that Sherlock heard and opened the door to their flat. He stood at the top of the stairs and smiled down at John, eyes twinkling.

“Hurry, John! Lestrade just texted me with a case, and I need your help. He’ll be here soon with the details.”

John looked up at him, took a deep breath, smiled, and climbed the stairs back into his old life.

⎯Fin⎯


End file.
